Fleming Mercer noticed someone watching him as he walked past. When he glanced up and saw Esmeralda, he stopped in his tracks.

His expression barely flickered; if anything, he looked cold, almost severe.

“What are you doing here?”

Esmeralda could tell, even from the way he spoke, that there wasn’t much genuine concern behind the question. Even though she was in the hospital because she’d been ill, his care was always perfunctory-nothing more than required by courtesy.

She felt a little tense facing Fleming, pressing her lips together before she replied, “My friend just had surgery.”

“As long as you’re alright,” he said, giving a brief nod and getting ready to leave. But as he turned, Esmeralda caught sight of something draped over his arm-a pale gray knit cardigan, unmistakably feminine.

She stared at it for a moment before asking, “Lucy’s sick again?”

That “again” made Fleming frown, displeased, but he didn’t argue. “Yeah,” he answered flatly.

He clearly had no intention of explaining further.

A strange awkwardness settled between them, but then, that was always how it was with Fleming. They’d known each other for more than a decade. Ever since she could remember, it had always been understood that she and Fleming were promised to each other-the Mercers from Eldermere and the Mercers from Brightshore, two old families with close ties and the same last name. The arrangement was natural, even expected.

She’d been raised on that idea. It was a certainty in her life, something she never questioned: one day, she would become Fleming’s wife. Over the years, that certainty bred a subtle connection, a flutter of nerves whenever she looked at him. Her infatuation seemed inevitable, and before she knew it, years had slipped by.

But Fleming hardly ever returned to London, and even when he did, he rarely paid her much attention. She’d learned to amuse herself, carrying on with a carefree bravado, but deep down, she harbored feelings for a man who seemed forever distant.

Now, at last, their wedding date was approaching. Fleming had finally been transferred back.

Maybe, she thought, this could be a good beginning.

“So, um-do you remember the date for our wedding at the end of the year?” Her fingers fidgeted at her earlobe, her voice full of hesitant hope.

This time, Fleming actually stopped and looked at her for a moment. “Let’s talk

about it another time. I’ve got something urgent right now.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode away, never once meeting her hopeful gaze.

Esmeralda stood there, stunned.

She knew what could make him look so anxious.

There was only ever one person.

His stepsister, Lucy.

Lucy had always been frail, and

Fleming was especially attentive and protective of her. There were times when Esmeralda wondered if their

sibling bond was a little too close-close enough to make her question whether Fleming’s feelings for Lucy were really brotherly.

But the one time she’d voiced her doubts, Fleming’s response had been even colder: “Don’t say things like that again. It’s not good for Lucy’s reputation.”

He’d looked so stern, so angry, that she’d been genuinely frightened. After that, she never brought it up again.

Now, watching him rush off without even a word for her, his priorities so clearly elsewhere…

Esmeralda stared down at her shoes, a dull ache settling in her chest. She knew it wasn’t fair resent a sick stepsister, but she couldn’t help feeling miserable.

Finally, she slapped her own cheeks lightly.

“Stop overthinking. The wedding’s almost here,” she muttered to herself, then turned to go buy a coffee.

On the fourth day after Elodie’s surgery, her numbers were finally improving.

But she still hadn’t woken up.

Back at Silverstein Group

headquarters, Watts had already gotten word from Sprague-news traveled fast, and it didn’t take much digging to find out Elodie had been hospitalized.

He was furious. Such a perfect opportunity, and Elodie had ruined it.